What Would Shakahnna Do?
by enRAGEd
Summary: 100 Theme Meme. Everyone's favourite short, fat, violent, foul-mouthed redhead steps into the shoes of our favourite Resident Evil characters, both the good and the bad, to show them how she rolls. Hilarity ensues. Updated weekly - sometimes.
1. 1 Love

**A/N:** Since there's been some confusion, I feel the need to clarify a few things. The Shakahnna spoken of in this story is an original character created by my girlfriend some ten years ago. Both she and I have written several different stories featuring several different versions of her, and I happen to think that she is the finest character ever written, let alone finest original character. But then, I am biased. Having an in-depth knowledge of all Shak's quirks and perversions, I decided to do a 100-Theme-Meme with the premise of "What Would Shakahnna Do?" if she was involved in some of the situations in the Resident Evil games (the fandom in which she is usually based). This is the result. You have all been prescribed one dose of Shak per week. Now take your medicine.

**1. Love**

Something about being gagged and bound, confined to a claustrophobic little box with no light and only musty air to breathe, seemed to make time slow to a crawl. It could have been minutes or hours since Luis had been bundled into the closet at the back of the abandoned building by the Chief's men; he suspected it was almost definitely the latter. Enclosed spaces had never been a fear of his, but the oppressive nature of his imprisonment was doing its level best to change that.

All he could do to occupy himself and, in some small way, maintain his sanity was struggle.

He had wriggled his hands and feet in a desperate attempt to work up some slack in the ropes wrapped around his wrists and ankles. Unfortunately, he was almost certain that the cord he was tied with had sliced into the flesh of his arms. It was impossible to tell that it wasn't just his imagination, but at times he could feel blood rolling in sticky rivulets along his forearms. After a few instances of that, he lost his will to continue and gave up.

Instead, he threw his body left and right into the sides of the cabinet, trying to make enough noise to be heard outside of the building. He didn't know whose attention he hoped to attract; only the Ganados were around to hear the racket he was making, and they wouldn't respond to it. On the bright side, he could at least be sure that they wouldn't punish him for it, since they responded indifferently to anything that didn't concern them, or their orders, directly. Unless one of the leaders happened by and took a disliking to all the noise, he could pound away to his heart's content, safe in the knowledge that it would achieve absolutely nothing.

That said, his enthusiastic bouncing had already caused the locked dresser to teeter on its squat feet, threatening to send it crashing right onto its doors, several times already. It wouldn't take many more instances of that to discourage movement entirely.

It was with some surprise that he eventually heard the sound of the small, wooden cell's latch snapping off, moments before the door opened and he was engulfed by the sudden influx of dim, grey light. He wobbled slightly and then toppled forward before he was able to stop himself, collapsing onto the floor. Impacting solidly with the dusty boards beneath, he groaned, moments before a strong hand caught him by the shoulder and rolled him onto his back.

At first, he thought it was one of his captors. He snapped his hands up to shield his face, expecting the sudden pain of knuckles slamming into his nose or some other reprisal for the incessant din. Instead, he caught a glimpse through his fingers of a face, round and youthful, framed by an unruly mop of flame-red hair. His eyes also took in the semi-automatic pistol that she was aiming at him and he immediately started to plead with her not to shoot. Unfortunately, that instinct was easier thought about than acted upon, given that he was still wearing a piece of duct tape over his mouth.

She seemed to understand the problem and reached forward, tearing a slit in the centre of his gag with what appeared to be claws extending from her fingertips.

"You alright?" she asked him, looking around nervously, emerald orbs scanning the room's decrepit interior.

"Bueno, gracias Señorita," he grunted, enjoying having the chance to speak in anything other than a mumble again, though he immediately began to wish that she had just torn the adhesive strip off, "you're not like them?"

"Pfft, do I look like fucking scum to you?" she responded dismissively, holstering her sidearm and giving him an unobstructed look at the steel knives that were grafted to her gloves, "how about you?"

"Just in the wrong place at the wrong time," he informed her, to which she was silent for a moment, seemingly musing on his answer.

Eventually, she seemed to come to a conclusion and unceremoniously flipped him onto his front, using her bladed fingers to slice through the ropes that were binding his hands.

"Okay," he began, shaking loose the fetters and rolling over onto his back to massage his wrists, feeling the cramped conditions of the last several hours begin to take its toll on his joints, "I have one, _very _important question. You got a smoke?"

The redhead looked at him for a few, long seconds, before smiling, drawing attention to the line of ragged scar tissue that ran along her right cheek, giving her lips an eternal upward quirk. She reached into the top pocket of her tactical vest, retrieving a battered cardboard packet from within, which she promptly offered to him.

He stared at the box, and then at her.

"I **love** you," he blurted.


	2. 2 Hate

**2. Hate**

Agony speared through him, hot and bracing. His body tensed, muscles snapping rigid along its length. Back arching, hands balling into fists, lips drawing back to reveal a snarl, he forced down the flash of intense anguish. Pale fingers, trembling with the exertion, moved up to trace the shredded hole in his uniform, overlaying his belly. They met the smooth, unblemished skin that sheathed his solid abdominal musculature and, slowly, the grimace of pain transformed into a bloodless smirk of triumph.

Wesker stood, casually discarding his sunglasses, baring his eyes to the brilliant luminescence of the laboratory. His surroundings were sharper, more focused, than they had ever been before. His hearing, too, seemed all the more acute, though he could hear nothing but the sound of his own breathing over the klaxons heralding the Arklay facility's destruction. The research of his contemporary, William Birkin, appeared to have yielded satisfactory results, though there would need to be further experimentation to discover their true extent.

He strode towards the terminal, the ever-present alarm warning him that time was short. Intending to reset the countdown and allow himself a more suitable window of escape, he activated the touch panel with a tap of his fingertip. He quickly punched in his login details, pleased at how fluid his movements felt, in spite of the fact that he had been clinically dead for several minutes. Unfortunately, his satisfaction evaporated when an error message appeared upon the screen.

At first, he thought that perhaps the workstation was faulty, but then a voice possessing a strange metallic quality, as though it had been produced via an electronic synthesiser, emitted from it.

"Tough luck, bitch," it trilled victoriously, "I've shut you out."

Wesker's brow furrowed, an uncharacteristic sense of vexation causing him to momentarily lose control of his expression. Dismissing the errant emotion and its effect, he returned his attention to the monitor before him. "Who are you?" he typed, impatience hastening his actions.

"The name's Red Queen, but you can call me Shak," it responded, its words somehow able to convey its absolute elation, despite the fact that they were produced by a machine, "and my mission is to shit on you from a great height. Too bad, cock muncher; for you, at least. And once you're a smoking corpse, I'm going to donate all the money belonging to the Board of Directors to Oxfam, and spam up the Umbrella Facebook page with pictures of cocks that it can't get off, and..."

The voice continued to explain its plans for the corporation with gleeful abandon, blithely unaware that the blond was no longer bequeathing its endless tirade with his attention. Of much greater importance to him was the realisation that the device before him, nothing more than a tool to be utilised as he saw fit, had dared to oppose him. It had greatly exceeded its station.

In that moment, he felt a pulse of genuine **hate**.

"You will regret this, my lady," he asserted, drawing back his fist and silencing the terminal by smashing it to pieces, "I promise."


	3. 3 Evil

**3. Evil**

They breached the inner sanctum, shouldering through the broad oak doors and advancing into the hall, sidearms raised and ready. At the heart of Lord Ozwell Spencer's grand estate lay his stateroom, where he received his guests. It was a grand chamber with opulent décor, lit by a wide fireplace and oil-burning lanterns at intervals circling its periphery.

At its furthest reaches was a stone dais, like a sweeping stage, upon which the greatest of tragedies were played out, before a majestic spread of stained glass. Lying prone upon the cold floor was the rapidly stiffening corpse of the castle's master, emaciated form swathed in an expensive robe woven from lavish silk. A bloody wound gaped at his chest, internal organs turned to liquid by a blow that had killed him instantly, before his body had been cast to the frigid marble beneath.

Above his limp carcass stood a figure clad entirely in black. It wore a finely creased suit composed of shirt, tie, jacket and trousers with an almost arrogant aplomb. A pair of polished boots, gleaming dully in the firelight, were visible beneath a knee-length leather greatcoat, which drew attention to the dark silhouette's impossible height and width. Beyond the immense shadow hung a graveyard moon, swollen and pallid in the twilight sky, casting a mournful glow upon the room that only served to give the imposing shape a sense of menace.

Albert Wesker turned his head, the profile of his slender Roman nose and ageless, unblemished features cast in a threatening light by the chamber's flickering luminescence. In the lenses of his sunglasses, a pulse of crimson flashed as he took in the agents confronting him. At the same time, a lance of white light tore the sky asunder, the growl of its passing rolling through the valley like the awakening of some titanic beast.

The sudden flare made the world a photonegative of itself for the briefest of moments, transforming him into something ethereal - a creature of undeniable, almost otherworldly evil.

"Phwoar!" Shakahnna roared, slapping her left hand into the crook of her right elbow and thrusting her fist skyward to accompany her amorous declaration, before turning to look at her partner, "what? **Evil**'s hot."

"Why didn't I bring Jill on this mission again?" Chris asked, putting his palm to his face with a heartfelt groan of frustration.


	4. 4 Good

**4. Good**

"Does anyone wanna tell me what that _thing _was back there?" Brad asked, hands slick with sweat on the stick as he piloted the helicopter back to base in Raccoon City.

Kevin Dooley, sitting beside him, shook his head tiredly. It had been a long day, one that he sincerely hoped he would be able to forget, but which he imagined would haunt him to his dying day. He sighed and reclined in the co-pilot's seat, letting his head rest against the padding in the hopes that sleep would soon come.

To his back, Richard Aiken sat with his uninjured arm wrapped around the shoulders of the team's rookie, Rebecca Chambers, who was pressed into his side, reclining comfortably against him. His wounded limb lay limply in his lap, blood-soaked bandages wrapped tightly around the gaping wound he had suffered. Her fingers were laced with his in a gesture of their growing affection, as they slouched, gently snoozing, against one another.

Their team mates from Bravo flanked them on either side, Forest Speyer and Edward Dewey providing them with a cushion against the gentle buffeting of the helicopter. Forest's eyes were closed, but his fingers clutched at the grenade launcher resting across his lap in quiet readiness. For his part, Edward had allowed himself to be rocked into unconsciousness by the steady, lilting sway of the cabin, his role in the ordeal having taken its toll on him.

Opposite, Barry Burton lifted a photograph from his pocket, staring into his own smiling features, and those of his beloved wife and daughters. Despite how inauspiciously the night had begun, despite how chaotic it had been as it progressed, he now felt that he was among friends, his transgressions forgiven. He would now be able to atone for the mistakes he had made.

Beside him, his closest comrades, Chris Redfield and Jill Valentine, reclined against one another, sharing in a heartfelt moment of relief for the end of the trials they had endured. The duties prescribed for them in the pantomime of terrors orchestrated by their team leader, the late Albert Wesker, had been the most profound of all, but they had endured. Both alone, and with the support of their fellow officers, they had triumphed over his machinations to the end. A small smile played across Chris's lips, a deep sense of tranquillity settling over him after the unforgiving onslaught. His partner lay with her head resting upon his shoulder, snoring softly into his ear, the noise only lending him further peace.

Joining them on the second bench was Joseph Frost, his shotgun set vertically on the floor at his feet, his hands and his chin resting propped upon its stock. His eyes were haunted, deep in thought. His shredded tactical vest spoke of near death experiences that were visible for all to see in the harrowed expression upon his youthful features. Much like many of his colleagues, it had almost been the last night of his life; he was fortunate, as were they, that it had not come to that.

Standing alone, clutching the overhead rails of the compartment, was the leader of Bravo Team, Enrico Marini. His face was set, mouth a grim line, as he contemplated the revelations of the day. Unlike most of the others, his thoughts were with the future. He knew that their battle was not over; he knew that the real fight was just beginning. But, with their combined might, given all that they had survived, he had faith in their small band, more so than ever before.

Shakahnna sat cross-legged on the floor of the helicopter's passenger section, a broad grin plastered across her scarred and bloodied features. Not only did everyone there owe her a blow job, as per their obligation as damsels-in-distress, but the image of Wesker being impaled was going to help her break her personal best for speed-wanking when she got home.

It had been a **good** day.


	5. 5 Innocent

**5. Innocent**

The security room was cold and clinically lit, the neon luminescence straining her eyes as she carried her little bundle in through the door, kicking it closed behind her. The walls were lined with row upon row of monitors, most showing nothing more than static. At one end, a bank of lockers sported a collage of photographs that were now meaningless to the living, most likely full of personal possessions that would never be reclaimed.

Shakahnna allowed herself a fond smile as the mess of blonde hair pressed into her bosom stirred slightly, a small hand rubbing at tired eyes. She had always felt an almost maternal fondness for the weak and helpless in her charge; it was rare that she was ever given the opportunity to truly play the mother figure like she was now.

"Shak, my tummy hurts," Sherry whispered feebly, fingers clutching at the front of her school uniform's shirt.

"Don't worry none, small thing," the redhead insisted, laying her tiny form down on the bed by the door so that she could lay her head on the pillow, "gotta go and take care of things, but I'll come back and be making it all better, okies?"

"You're leaving?" she asked, voice tight with genuine fear, her hand moving to grip the material of the woman's flak jacket instinctively.

"I'm gonna lock the door, and I _promise_ I won't be long; there isn't anything out there that'll give me any trouble," she asserted, laying a soothing hand on the girl's forehead, before thinking to herself and reaching into the top pocket of her vest, "wanna lolly?"

Her clawed fingers deftly picked out the sweet that she had been referring to, managing to avoid slicing anything apart with expertise gleaned from years of experience. Sherry's momentarily hopeful eyes took in the lint-covered ball of half-sucked, green candy and quickly lost their shine.

"Erm, no thank you," she muttered, to which Shak shot a look at her offering, shrugged, blew on it in a futile attempt to shake loose the dust, and popped it into her own mouth.

"Suit yourself, small thing," she said, through a mouthful of lollipop, the stick bobbing rhythmically with her words, before something else seemed to occur to her and she reached for another pocket.

From the second pouch, she withdrew a slender, grey tube, which caught the light from the ceiling dully. Liquid rolled around the inside, and the blonde looked at it with an expression of confusion.

"What is it?" she asked.

"It's a magic wand," her guardian informed her brightly, as she snapped the item in half with a flick of her wrist. Rather than breaking it, the movement caused it to begin glowing emerald on the inside.

"It's a glow stick," Sherry corrected, as the totem was pressed into her hand.

"It'll protect you from the monsters," Shak explained, nodding sagely.

"I don't think it can do that."

"Hey, where's your **innocent** sense of childlike wonder? Aren't you supposed to believe this kind of stuff? I did when I was your age; fuck, sometimes I still do. Pardon the language."

"My Dad always said that you should never believe something unless you've got empirical evidence to prove it."

"Pfft, I bet your Dad doesn't even believe in Santa Claus," the redhead scoffed, before leaning forward as though she were about to share a confidence, "listen, Sherry. You don't need a magic wand or pixie dust or anything like that, because you've got me. If anything even looks at you like it wants to eat you then I'll beat it to death with its own limbs. I'm the scariest thing here, small thing, and you aren't scared of me, are you?"

"Nope," the girl confessed with a shake of her head, a weak smile appearing on her lips.

"Then you just sit tight," Shak said, a broad grin taking her own features as she gave her charge's hand a protective and affectionate squeeze, "and let Aunty Shak take care of everything."


	6. 6 Murder

**6. Murder**

Claire staggered forward as the blade sliced across her throat, hands flying up to clutch at the weeping maw that gaped in her windpipe. Crimson trails spiralled out from the wound, circling her neck, soaking her t-shirt, covering her grasping fingers with her own blood. She choked and gurgled, fluid welling in her mouth, spilling out over her lips, even as it simultaneously rushed downwards into her trachea, filling her lungs and stifling her breathing.

Her brother let out an incomprehensible scream of loss and grief, words lost to the sudden, biting anguish that tore through him. He dived for her, barely catching her before her knees buckled beneath her and betrayed her weight to gravity, only just saving her from slamming into the frozen concrete at their feet. He cradled her head in one muscular arm, reaching up with the other in a desperate attempt to stifle the bleeding.

"Oh God," he sobbed, as his palm slipped across her skin, slick with the life of his sole remaining relative, the young woman whose life he had come all this way to save, only to fail in his mission, "no, no, Christ no!"

Her body jerked and twitched, the spasms of a body fighting death, but facing a losing battle. Stricken eyes locked with his, a wordless scream of pain and terror echoing through his paralysed mind as he watched the light fading in her eyes. Though he didn't realise it, a groan of the worst agony flowed unbidden from his lips, long, low and harrowing, voice broken with emotion.

Her struggling died, fading to the weakest of convulsions, until at last she lay still, the expression of absolute horror frozen upon her features. Even with her skin pinched by the chill of the Antarctic facility, he had never seen her look as pale as she did in that moment, bled of her very essence. Her limbs hung slack, bloodied lips trapped in an eternal circle, eyes staring vacantly ahead at nothing, never to see another, solitary moment of the world that was now leaving her behind with each passing second.

Painful tears escaped his eyes, each bead of water passing like a stone in the chill of the frigid air. His hands were sticky with scarlet, his body numb from head to toe. His mind felt like a glacier moving through icy seas, slow and ponderous. Eventually, he looked up through misted vision to glare at his tormentor, the perpetrator of this **murder**.

"Why?" he bellowed, his cracking voice echoing from the walls of the cavern where the confrontation was yet continuing, "she didn't deserve this; any of this! Why would you do this to her? She wasn't important to you!"

"No," Shakahnna said, eyes flashing red with menace as she spoke, "but she was important to you."


	7. 7 Withdrawn

**7. Withdrawn**

Steve stood triumphantly at the far end of the bridge, waiting for his partner to catch up. She hadn't taken too kindly to him running off, but he had made a point of showing her exactly how reliable he was, eliminating all of the zombies in the area in short order. When she finally caught up, she was red in the face and breathing heavily, evidently not comfortable with running any kind of distance.

"Took you long enough," he teased, grinning broadly as she came to join him in the underground waterway, the sound of running water drifting up from below.

"Fuck... You..." Shakahnna responded haltingly, placing her hands on her knees and taking a moment to catch her wind, declining to say anything else for the moment.

"Aww, come on; don't get mad just because I'm better at this than you," he sniggered, blithely unaware that the redhead was glaring daggers at him through the curtain created by her hair, "see, this is why you can depend on me to back you up. Even if everyone else _does _let you down, I won't."

At that, the woman's head rose, her face brightening for a reason that he couldn't quite comprehend until she started to talk. "Now why would you go and be saying something like that, toots?" she asked, voice conveying faux-innocence as she used the term of address he had come to hate, "sounds like _someone_ might have issues with unreliable people in their life."

"No way," he scoffed, waving his hand as though dismissing the idea outright, "I'm just saying that, even if most people aren't trustworthy, I sure as hell am. People like you and me, normally we can only depend on our weapons to see us through, but now we can depend on each other."

"Compensating, toots?" the female prisoner asked, all mirth and grinning, "whatcha hiding? Family let you down, did they?"

"I - I don't wanna talk about it," he insisted, unable to keep the stammer from his voice as he turned away from her, only to see her bounding towards him from the corner of his eye, "hey, what are you-?"

"Steeeve! Steeeve! Whatcha hiding?" she trilled, latching onto him with her right arm and using the knuckles of her left hand to knead his ribcage painfully, "come on, Steve; tell Big Daddy Shak what's the matter."

"Nothing, alright?" he snapped irritably, "now leave me alone."

"Nevar!" she yelled in response, clinging to him despite his attempts to shake her off, though he was subdued by the fact that her fingers ended in long blades, "not until you tell me what's wrong. ! Tell meeeee! Steve, Steve, Steve! Tell me! Now, Steve; tell me now, Steve! Steve! Stop being such an emo and tell me!"

With a scream of frustration, he broke away from her and bolted back in the direction that they had come, rushing through the door and into the boiler room beyond. She watched him leave with a bemused expression on her scarred face, which was quickly replaced with a grin when she realised that he didn't have anywhere to run to. In truth, she didn't know if she were actually all that interested in Steve's past, or if she simply knew that pressuring him would wind him up. Either way, his hesitance to speak was like waving a flag in front of a bull.

"Something I said?" she asked, feigning surprise at his reaction by posing her hand against her chest in mock astonishment, before chasing after him, eager to learn why he was quite so **withdrawn**.


	8. 8 Memory

**8. Memory**

The marshland passed by with an alacrity that reduced the discoloured vegetation and muddy waters to a grey blur. Now that they had left the narrow tributaries, they were making good progress through the swamps, guided by Sheva's expert hand. She piloted them smoothly over the cresting waves, eyes scanning the surroundings for signs of anything that might disrupt their progress. It wasn't uncommon to run aground on mudflats or suffer bone-jarring jolts in collisions with animals lurking under the surface. The trick was to watch for the gentle undulations and ripples that betrayed their presence.

Fortunately for them, it had rained not long ago, keeping the water level high enough to ensure they could glide over any obstructions. Any reptiles prowling the muddy depths were keeping their heads down also, which was encouraging.

Irving had already escaped them once and she was determined to catch up with him. It was bad enough that he had managed to utterly destroy at least two full units of B.S.A.A operatives, including among them her mentor and best friend, Josh Stone. Worse yet was the fact that he had been releasing biological weapons to dangerous parties throughout her nation. The region had enough problems with its unstable government and roaming bands of guerrillas without the added threat of biohazard that he had introduced.

She had given too many years of her life trying to stop Umbrella's taint from seeping into her homeland to allow him to get away with it so easily. He was going to pay, of that much she was certain.

Her partner was sitting crossed-legged on the metal deck below the seat where she was perched, using a whetstone from her hip pack to gently file her finger blades back to their original sharpness. The last twelve hours had been gruelling, particularly for Shakahnna; the night, at least, had been more comfortable for her.

"Shak," she said absently, drawing the other woman's attention away from the task at hand, "there's something I've been meaning to ask you..."

"Nu uh, milady; sorry, but I don't swing that way," the redhead insisted, as though she were proactively answering the question that Sheva had been going to ask, "I mean, you're nice and all, but I'm not that kind of short, fat redhead."

"That wasn't what I was going to ask," the African native responded eventually, frowning deeply, "I was going to ask you about Raccoon City."

"What about it?"

"Well, you were there, weren't you? When the biohazard happened?"

"That's right."

"So?" Sheva asked, gesturing into the air with her free hand, only to receive a blank look from her partner, "what happened? What things did you see there?"

"To be honest," Shakahnna began, voice sounding subdued as she ran her flint across her blades in a half-hearted fashion, "I don't really remember much of it."

"You don't remember?" she uttered incredulously, stunned at how bad her colleague's **memory** must have been.

"I was _pretty _fucking trashed that whole week; I mean, all the alcohol was free, and when the cat's away..."

"You were _drunk_? And that's why you can't remember anything?"

"I'm sure it was totally terrible at the time, but I'm assuming it was just like most of the other outbreaks I've seen; lots of zombies, occasional Hunter or Licker, people dying all around," the other woman recounted, "I wouldn't really say there was much to tell about it. Plus it's kind of depressing. Let me tell you about the time I met Burton C. Bell instead."

"Who?"

"Erm, lead singer of Fear Factory?" she said incredulously, shocked when Sheva's expression remained uncomprehending, before shaking her head in disbelief, "you and I need to have a little chat, I think."


	9. 9 Insanity

**9. Insanity**

Jill pressed her back to the crumbling pillar, fighting to control her breathing. The fall had left her shaken, physically and mentally, and somewhere along the line, she'd lost most of her equipment. She was cold and stiff with bruising, shivering in the frigid, waist-deep water in the bowels of the nightmarish dungeon that lay beneath Spencer's estate. Still, even those problems were nothing compared with what lurked in those dark catacombs.

She peered around the corner. The beast stood at over seven feet tall, hooded head bowed, malformed arms wrapped around the bulk of its immense, rusted hook. She and her partner had been stalked through the prison above by monstrosities like this one, men transformed into unthinking, unfeeling killers by the virus, guardians of Spencer's **insanity**. They were strong, but slow, easily outmanoeuvred and dispatched at range; they had come prepared to face the former Umbrella's Chairman's madness, whatever form it might take. The monsters had dropped like any other beneath their concentrated fire.

But the fall had changed everything. Now they had only their wits and the dungeon's own death traps to rely on. Steeling herself, she pressed her fingers between her chattering teeth and whistled.

The creature shuddered at the sound, the bulging growth on its left shoulder twitching and pulsating as its head rose, hidden eyes taking in its quarry. She backed away as it staggered towards her, ensuring that the length of its heavy, iron weapon was between them at all times. It could kill her in a single blow and she had to be careful.

It let out a groan, a hoarse death rattle, and hefted the huge hook, slamming it down and missing her by little over half a foot. Foetid water sprayed over her and she gagged, but she held her nerve, leading it back to the place where the ambush was set. A moment to right itself and it continued its pursuit, eager, in its own, dulled way, to kill her.

"Now!" she yelled, as it passed under the arch, and Shakahnna leapt down from above, landing two-footed on the abomination's head.

It crumpled beneath her weight, collapsing into the water, its weapon falling beneath the surface and striking the floor with a muffled clang. The redhead continued her assault, jumping up and down, over and over, on the sentinel's misshapen skull, until its corrosive blood began to pour, making the water hiss and steam. By the time she was finished, it probably didn't have much of a head left.

But even as Jill stooped to relieve the fallen monster of a much-needed emblem piece, stowing it beside the other two they had appropriated, there was the sound of a wall collapsing elsewhere in the dungeon. Shak's eyes lit up.

"Again?" she asked, features splitting into a broad grin.

"Again," Jill agreed, as she prepared herself for another turn as bait.


	10. 10 Heartbreak

**10. Heartbreak**

Yoko followed the group through the door, through the morgue where the bodies of the lizard-ape hybrids, the ones she had heard called Hunters, lay in the midst of dissection, and into the control room beyond. Shakahnna led, George and Cindy to her back, and she lagged behind as usual. She wanted to stay and examine the monsters, study their body structure, learn their weak points, be useful to the team, but the redhead wanted them close and she could only obey. They needed to find out who had stopped them from synthesising the T-virus antidote.

"My apologies for the interruption," the man behind the curtain said, as they entered his inner sanctum, "though I must thank you for your assistance, I'm afraid I can't permit you to take Daylight. Not after I have invested so much time and effort in its discovery."

"Oh-ho-ho, Umbrella Scum," Shak announced, with a dangerous gleam in her eye, "please tell me you're a Head Researcher."

"Once, perhaps, but no longer. I now consider myself free of the corporation, to renegotiate my employment as I see fit, and the anti-virus is my key to achieving that end."

"Even better; you're worth, like, double points because you're double Head Researcher scum alpha. And a major cunt to boot."

He ignored her, taking in the rest of her cadre. Yoko matched gazes with him and saw, with horror, that same flicker of recognition that she had seen in Monica's eyes over a day ago. Another person they had met knew her, but still she couldn't recall her own identity. That past life squirmed within her like a worm, her gut clenching around it, making her sick with uneasiness.

"Yoko - it's been so long. Oh, but then, you might not know that."

"Yeah, yeah, Yoko was Umbrella scum once and then she wasn't; I already went through this with that other bint. Now hold still and let me cut your balls off."

The redhead stalked forward, preparing to tear him apart with the same gleeful gusto that she had used to dispatch every other monster in their path thus far. And that was when something above let out a loud, dull thud and the scientist's lower jaw burst open in a spray of blood. He dropped limply to the floor, a circle of crimson atop his crown marking the point where the bullet had punched through his skull and burst his brain.

Yoko covered her mouth, shocked and horrified. Cindy let out a cry, and George wrapped a protective arm around her, pulling her close. Even he was forced to look away in disgust. Shakahnna's grief was the most pronounced of all, however.

"My points!" she wailed, falling down next to the man's slack corpse and slapping it in the shoulder in an attempt to rouse it, "you fucking stole my fucking points, you fucking cunt! He was worth, like, two hundred points and I didn't get them!"

At that, she started to practically weep, and it took all three of them to pull her away, telling her that there was nothing she could do, that her points were already gone. Even reminding her about the Tyrant that was stalking them did nothing to end her **heartbreak**.


	11. 11 Teamwork

**11. Teamwork**

It had been quite some time since Albert Wesker had felt the pulse of adrenaline in his veins, the sense of urgency that came with a vital mission, and a battle against potentially deadly foes. Since his transformation, he had become bored with the challenge posed by ordinary men, but this was a different situation entirely. He was not orchestrating the downfall of the established order now, nor was he engaged in a battle with his nemesis, one Christopher Redfield. This was an operation of supreme import, far more significant than his ambitions in Africa.

Drawing back his fist, he punched through the translucent pillar, claiming the time bonus and watching as the countdown on his wrist was extended by a further sixty seconds. All the better to ensure that his killing spree went uninterrupted by the arrival of Josh Stone.

He whipped free his Beretta, aiming it into the face of a Majini that charged towards him, cattle prod at the ready, and pulled the trigger, the bullet smashing through its right cheek and blowing apart its brain. Spinning on his heel, he executed a further mindless drone in a similar manner, watching as its corpse slumped to the metal beneath his feet.

Behind it, a third enemy hefted a rocket launcher onto its shoulder, sighting through the eyepiece and drawing a bead on him. He reacted with superhuman reflexes, adjusting his aim and squeezing off a round. The metal slug entered the weapon's scope and popped its wielder's eye. As the creature staggered back, clutching its bloodied face, he closed the distance with a burst of intense speed, thrusting his knee forward and compacting its ribcage. Its battered corpse was thrown limply across the platform, rolling to a stop half a dozen feet away.

"Poor performance indeed," he chastised, sneering to himself as the countdown was boosted by yet another five seconds, as he had anticipated.

The atmosphere of the experimental facility altered, however, when he heard the familiar rattling of claws on steel, heralding the arrival of one of Umbrella's foremost B.O.W archetypes, the Lickers. He turned, withdrawing his Hydra shotgun, a three-barrelled custom sawn-off, and aiming it almost nonchalantly with a single hand towards the approaching pack of skinless beasts. They scrabbled forward, almost eager, slick flesh glistening in the bright, sterile lighting, and he opened fire, a hail of buckshot tearing through bare muscle and exposed brain tissue. A great shrieking arose from them as they died in their droves.

The weapon ran empty, and yet more of the monsters approached. As quickly as the delicate operation would permit, he snapped his firearm open and removed the spent cartridges, replacing them with others from his equipment pouch. Before he could renew his bombardment of their ranks, however, something shunted into his back and knocked him to the floor. He struggled beneath its weight, easily twice that of an ordinary human being, and turned to find himself pinned by one of his genetically-engineered adversaries. He struggled to free the Hydra, but to no avail; it was pinned against his chest. As such, he resorted to the only course of action that remained.

"Your assistance is required!" he growled into his radio, even as the enemy seated upon his midriff reared back, elongated tongue whipping between razor-sharp teeth, claws flexing as they prepared to plunge into his flesh.

There was no response.

"_Your assistance is required!_" he repeated, this time more urgently, only this time there was a reply.

"I heard you the first time," Shakahnna said, her face appearing within his field of vision, leering down at him maliciously.

He let out a disbelieving snarl, moments before four talons plunged through his ribcage, piercing his heart and spraying blood across his features, and those of his partner. Gore streaked her rosy cheeks, spattering across her broad grin, and then the world faded to black around him. So much for **teamwork**.


	12. 12 Dying

**12. Dying**

Shakahnna staggered along the corridor, the blood on her hand smearing down the wall as she fought to stop herself from collapsing. The wound in her shoulder wasn't closing; she'd been an idiot to let that zombie get so close, but ammo was low and she needed to save every bullet she could for a real threat, like the dogs. She'd never felt so weak before, so scared of what might be happening to her, and that there might be nothing she could do to save herself - so scared of **dying**.

She clenched her teeth around the agonised cry that rose in her throat, shouldering her way through onto what looked like a metal balcony that ran around the outside of the building. After Bravo Team had been separated in the forest, she'd come to the mansion, assuming that they'd have found their way to it as well. Instead, she'd found wall-to-wall ghouls just waiting to get their teeth into her, and the worst part was that one had finally done just that.

Propping herself up against the wall, she limped along the walkway, the ivy clinging to the walls raking at her flesh, tangling in her hair, but she barely even noticed it. The world was spinning and her feet didn't feel like they were going in the direction she wanted them to. Eventually, she had no choice but to sit down, slumping into a seat at the edge of the gantry, knocking over a plant pot in the process. She tore her left sleeve off, no easy feat given that her right arm was practically paralysed from the tendon damage, and crammed it into the wound.

Sighing, she let her body hang slack in the chair, trying to conserve energy. Suddenly, she was tired, exhausted, unable to even keep her head raised any longer. It dropped, unruly red hair falling down around her face. Cold descended on her, but she was too fatigued to notice; when she stopped shivering, it should have been a warning sign, but she was too far gone to realise it.

She didn't even notice when the bird landed beside her, hopping down onto the railing from its perch above. It ruffled its sleek, black feathers and looked at her, cocking its head inquisitively, before letting out a caw. When she didn't respond, it hopped onto her knee, claws scratching at the flesh beneath her combat trousers, investigating more closely. After a moment, it tentatively leaned forward and pecked at the exposed flesh of her forearm. Its beak sank into her skin and, with a wriggle of its head, it pulled loose a morsel, which it promptly swallowed.

Insensate, she simply sat there, unwilling or unable to move.

It hopped up onto her shoulder, pecking at her neck and cheek as it went, pulling loose yet more mouthfuls. Then, finally satisfied that she was not a danger, it reared back and jabbed at her eye, bursting the lid and taking hold of the orb inside. It tugged the ball free, biting away the length of red cord that was anchoring it to the skull, and then set about swallowing it.

That was when her fist came around and hammered into it, sending it flying off her shoulder and over the edge of the balcony with a confused caw and a flurry of black feathers. With that, she fell limp again.

"Bloody crow."


	13. 13 Last Hope

**13. Last Hope**

Shakahnna had a theory. She'd been explaining it at length to Carlos, the U.B.C.S soldier she had met, but not castrated, while traversing the burnt-out ruins of Raccoon City. All events, she had told him, after initial hostilities had ceased, could be sorted into two distinct categories. Both could be summed up in a single word. She had demonstrated this theory dozens of times since they had met, and she felt that he was beginning to grasp the concept.

As they burst through the wide oak doors, out into the clock tower's expansive courtyard, they saw the extraction chopper appear in the sky above. It was their **last hope** for rescue, and their best chance for survival. As it swung around, idling above them, preparing to land, Shakahnna invoked the name of the first category with a whoop of joy.

"Hooray!"

Carlos waved up at the helicopter, trying to flag down the pilot, and the redhead shot him a broad grin. Even if they were all Umbrella scum, she was still glad to see a way out of this hellhole. Depending on what happened when she told them what their employers had been up to, she'd maybe not gut them like trout when they landed. That was when she caught sight of something out of the corner of her eye, a dark shape moving atop the roof of the small chapel. She looked over and saw the monster, the Nemesis that had been pursuing her, Rocket Launcher affixed to its shoulder.

She grabbed her partner's arm and, before he could react, dragged him into cover behind the concrete fountain at the centre of the yard. He started to protest, but then fell silent when he realised what they were hiding from. But the stalker wasn't aiming at them. It was smart - smarter than any other monster Umbrella had created. It prioritised the helicopter - either as a threat, or as a danger to its mission of killing her - and took aim.

It fired. A rocket streaked overhead and turned the aircraft into a shell of twisted, blackened metal around a raging fireball. It plummeted, detonating against the side of the clock tower, demolishing the front entrance and crashing to the ground with bone-jarring force.

At that point, Shakahnna realised that the situation had switched category, and grunted out the name of the second.

"Cunt."


	14. 14 Give Up

**14. Give Up**

It had been several days since Ada Wong had first arrived in Raccoon City. It had all turned to crap pretty soon afterwards. What had begun as a simple mission to collect data on Birkin and his family, his laboratory and his research, had turned into a desperate fight for survival. She had hoped to observe the comings and goings from the facility, plan an effective strategy, and then infiltrate once she had gathered enough Intel. Instead, she had spent the better part of a week evading zombies and other mutants, just waiting to catch a break.

She'd dared to hope her luck might be changing when she entered the police station, but that turned out to be a bust too. Within a single night, everyone there had been wiped out, either by the undead assailing the barricades, or by the Lickers now roaming the halls. Even her contact, Ben Bertolucci, had turned out to be useless. And in her haste to investigate his supposed secret exit from the R.P.D's Central Precinct, she had managed to get herself separated from the only other human being left alive in the building.

Shakahnna Morgan was a mixed blessing. Ada had been hoping for a young police officer, the chivalrous type, the kind who'd do a lot of heavy lifting without asking too many questions, just to help out a beautiful woman. Instead, she'd found the redhead. She was a little more suspicious than she would have liked. She asked how it was that Ada seemed so knowledgeable, or so capable, or so alive compared with the rest of the R.P.D's occupants. She asked over and over. But needs must.

Together, they'd gotten the job done, before they'd been split up.

After their parting, the spy had gone the long way to get back to where they'd left one another. She traipsed through the sewers, regretting wearing the dress and tights instead of the combats she usually favoured for work like this. She reached the corridor at the top of the stairs just in time to hear a roar rend the air. She broke into a run and burst through the heavy steel door into the Septic Tank.

She threw it open and watched as the freakish abomination midway across the bridge melted away into a pile of thick sludge. Sliding her shotgun onto her back, Shakahnna spat a fat wad of her own sludge into the decaying puddle and stepped over it.

Ada ran to join her. "Shak!"

"Nice timing," she said, and it was difficult not to take her tone as some kind of insinuation.

"I got here as fast as I could. Have any luck?"

"Ben's dead; there's some kind of cunterrific giant monster after me - no, wait - _two_ giant monsters; and the only other person alive in this place who isn't you or me is taking a twelve year old girl into the sewers with her. So yeah, there's been luck, but I'll let you decide what kind it is."

"What are we going to do?"

"Open _that _door." She aimed a finger at the only exit, which seemed to be locked with some kind of puzzle.

"Do you have the pieces for it?" she asked, and the other woman started to dig through her pockets.

"Yes," she said. She patted each of the pouches lining her round figure in turn. Then, she did it a second time. "No."

"So what do we do now? **Give up**?"

"What do I look like, a pussy? I may not have their pishy puzzle pieces, but I _do _have a master key."

Ada frowned, wondering what she was referring to, and then her eyes widened when they settled on the sizeable block of plastic explosives clasped in her partner's hand. She gaped for a moment, wondering if she was serious, and then caught sight of the wild, maniacal expression plastered across her features.

"Stand _well _back, toots."


	15. 15 Pain

**15. Pain**

And just like that, the mission had come undone.

Chris wasn't sure what was going on in Kijuju yet, but he knew one thing. The city wasn't happy to see him, or his partner, and it wanted them dead. The lynch mob of psychotic civilians that had chased them down the street, as he'd dragged Shak away for her own safety, were now hammering at the door. But there were new, bigger problems.

"We can't stay in here," he told her, looking around at the blood-slick hooks and mutilated animal carcasses suspended around the room.

"It's not that bad," the redhead replied, sparing a longing glance at the rattling door they had entered through, as though she almost wished that the crowd would break it down.

For his part, he couldn't see the appeal. The place stank of gore and hot meat, the stifling heat having made the smell near-unbearable. Even for a carnivore like himself, he was struggling to find the Butcher's Workshop appealing. Though he knew she wasn't a fan of the temperature either, she seemed more than happy with the sight of all the pre-cooked beef.

Still, it wasn't steaks that were bothering him. There was an immense axe embedded in the sundered cow lying on the table. It was a cruel weapon, a serrated cutting edge on one end and a massive, studded hammer on the other.

"If we stay here too long, the guy who owns _that_ is probably going to show up.".

"I'm still failing to see a problem."

"Let's go," he said, checking the magazine of his Beretta, "we've got a mission to complete."

"You're no fun."

He walked over to the corner of the room, where a heavy metal trapdoor had been ripped away from its hinges. There was a tunnel leading under the building. Shak searched the boxes for anything of use, but she didn't seem to be finding anything. Once she was done, he waved her over, and they clambered down into the darkness.

Gaps in the ceiling provided light, shafts of bright sun piercing the gloom. They made their way past rats and decaying corpses that had probably been there for some time, maybe even before the current unrest. Kijuju had always been a mining city, so tunnels like this had always existed. And it had always been an unstable zone, so there had always been bodies in need of hiding. They stamped through streams flowing to and from some unknown body of water, and under beams erected to keep the passage from collapsing, until they reached the ladder that would take them back up.

Chris went first, before any kind of debate could begin, and Shak, for once, seemed quite happy to let him go. He should have been suspicious, but instead he clambered up ahead of her without wasting a moment. He lifted the cover over the hole and peered out, even as the redhead moved up behind him. They were inside another building, a storeroom of some kind, and there were no hostiles in sight.

He was about to climb up when he felt a sharp **pain **in his posterior, almost like teeth clamping down on his right cheek, and he shot into the air, landing on the lip of the opening. He whipped his pistol from its holster and aimed it down into the redhead's grinning face as she looked up at him, eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Your place or mine, big boy?" she asked, and it took him a moment to realise that she had a boot print on her face about the same size as those he was currently wearing, and a black eye to go with it.

"Damn, Shak, I'm sorry," he said, sliding his handgun back onto his thigh.

"Don't apologise, Chrissie," she insisted, "it was a perfectly natural reaction considering I bit you on the arse."


End file.
